Heaven open'd wide Her ever during gates, harmonious sound, On golden hinges moving.

I cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue, unexercised and unbreathed, that never sallies out and sees her adversary, but slinks out of the race where that immortal garland is to be run for, not without dust and heat.

The sun to me is dark And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.

It is not hard for any man who hath a Bible in his hand to borrow good words and holy sayings in abundance; but to make them his own is a work of grace only from above.

O fairest of creation, last and best Of all God's works, creature in whom excelled Whatever can to sight or thought be formed, Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet! How art thou lost, how on a sudden lost, Defaced, deflow'red, and now to death devote? Paradise Lost

To be weak is miserable, Doing or suffering.

My latest found, Heaven's last, best gift, my ever new delight!